


Under the table and dreaming

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [29]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Right now you’re running in circles.  You feel bad, so your body freaks out, so you feel worse, and it freaks out again…”  Tony trails off.  He remembers being a teenager himself again, explaining to a delirious coed that the red in her vomit was just the bloody marys.  Not imminent death.But it’s not funny this time.  This time Tony actually cares.  “We’ll get you in to a real doctor later to make sure it’s not something serious.  Like, mono or something.  But first we gotta make it through tonight.”





	Under the table and dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on a series of prompts from Tumblr. Find me @builder051

Tony looks up in exasperation when his phone rings.  “Hey,” he says to the empty air beside him.  “I thought we weren’t doing the taking calls thing.”

“You requested your ringer to be kept silent except in the case of an emergency,” FRIDAY replies.

“There’s no emergency,” Tony says, a note of accusation in his voice.  He sets down a screwdriver and looks up at the muted newscast playing on the holographic screen hovering above his lab bench.  It’s something about sports.  Or maybe politics.  It’s getting hard to tell the difference these days.  But there’s nothing showing an alien attack or HYDRA insurgence.  

“Your cell plan defines an emergency as two calls received from the same number in the span of five minutes,” the AI informs him.

“What, we got Verizon making the rules now?”  Tony lets out a irritated chuckle.  “No.  I make the rules.”

“Would you like to take the call, sir?”

“Who is it?”  Tony resumes loosening the bolts on his helmet.

“It’s Mr. Parker calling,” FRIDAY says.  “He tried to reach you at 12:56 AM, then again at 1:32 AM and now at 1:34–”

“Ok, I don’t need a lesson in telling time.”  Tony throws the screwdriver down again.  This is exactly why he works at night, and alone.  So he won’t get interrupted.  “Did he try Happy?  He should call Happy if he needs a permission slip for an R-rated movie or something…”

“He has, sir.”  FRIDAY quiets for a moment.  Then she prompts Tony again.  “Would you like to take the call?”

“Geez, fine.”  Tony uses his feet to propel his swivel chair back from the bench.  “I’ll go press the ‘accept call’ button myself, too.”  He snatches his phone up and angrily swipes at the screen, then holds the device to his ear.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter gasps as soon as the line clicks to life.

“What, kid, isn’t it past your bedtime?” Tony leans back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long this is going to take.

“Um, well,” Peter waffles.  “I was just, uh, wondering…”  His voice goes high before it trails off into a gulp.

“Uh-huh.”  Tony’s already beginning to tune him out.

“How long, or, um, how many times–” another gulp “–can a person throw up before it’s, like, you know.  Serious?”

“Um…”  Tony thinks, then the words mesh with the kid’s tone and the rest of the sounds coming from his end of the call.  “Wait, what?”

“How many times–” Peter starts, but the phone whistles and clatters, and Tony hears the horrendous sound of empty retching.

“Oof, kid…”  Tony shakes his head in sympathy.  

“Ohmygodimsosorry,” the kid rasps.  “I didn’t mean to drop the phone, I just–”

“Ok, ok,” Tony quickly soothes him.  “Pete?  Listen.  Stop talking.”

“Ok,” Peter says.  Then, “Sorry.”

“That’s fine.”  Tony cards his hand through his hair, thinking through his plan of attack.  He’s usually good at that.  His plans just don’t usually involve sick kids.  “Where’s May?  She not home?”

“She’s in…  Seattle?  I think?”  Peter coughs.  Tony holds his breath in case the kid starts gagging again.  “For training,” Peter continues.  “She got a promotion.”

“That’s great,” Tony says absently.  “How long have you been sick?”

“Um…”  Peter hesitates.  “Since I got home from school?  I just, like, my stomach, and, like…”  His voice distorts as he swallows noisily.  “I can’t stop.  Puking.”  He breaks into another heave.

“Alright, I got the idea.”  Tony does the calculation.  The kid’s been throwing his guts up for eight hours, minimum.  Probably closer to ten.  Dehydration has to be a problem, let alone whatever bug the kid has.  Tony’s not even going to ask if he still has his appendix.  

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter breathes.  “I just…don’t know what to do.”

“No, it’s ok.”  Tony holds the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he hastily tightens up the bolts on his helmet.  He carries it across the lab and steps into the shell of his suit.  “I’m on my way, alright?  Try to stay on the phone until I get there.”

“Ok,” the kid agrees.  “I just…thanks.”

“Sure, kid.”  Tony takes one moment to shake his head, then switches the phone to speaker and rockets upward through the skylight.

_____

The kid’s right where Tony expects.  The bathroom has an unfortunately lived-in feel; the towels pulled down from the racks to make a nest in front of the toilet, a few empty Dixie cups discarded by the trash.

“Hey, Pete.”  Tony divests himself of his suit while he’s still in the hallway.  There’s barely enough room for two people even when one of them isn’t wearing armor.  

Peter lifts his head.  His arms are folded over the edge of the bathtub.  The moment of respite is short-lived, though.  The motion of sitting up seems to spark a chain reaction, and the kid’s shoulders hunch as he dry heaves.  He doesn’t scramble for the toilet, or even put his hand over his mouth.  

Tony knew it was going to be bad.  But, yeah.  It’s bad.  It reminds Tony of the aftermath of keggers he went to in college.  He’d ended up stuck in the bathroom more than he’d liked, because 16-year-olds don’t have the tolerance to match the clout, and the first person to puke ends up being the welcoming committee for every other person who needs an intimate moment with the porcelain god.  

But 16-year-olds are smarter than real college kids.  They know they can’t deal with everything on their own.  

“Alright.”  Tony kneels beside the kid and grips his trembling shoulder.  He flushes the toilet without looking, then props Peter over it as yellow bile starts to run down his chin.  

“Here.”  Tony cleans him up with a wad of toilet paper because it’s clear the kid’s beyond doing anything himself.  

“Ugh.  Thanks,” Peter sputters.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I just… I don’t…”  The kid’s exhausted.  Emotional, but not teary.  He sounds like he’s on his deathbed.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony forces himself to focus on the science.  Dehydration sets in fast and turns dangerous even faster.  He needs to get liquids into the kid, orally if possible.  Feverish people are like drunk people; they don’t like IVs.  

MIT should’ve issues biology credit hours for parties.  Tony finds the stack of fresh paper cups beside the sink and fills one with lukewarm water.  He wonders if the college would take the suggestion, now that he’s…well, who he is.  Maybe they’ll institute a new policy by the time Peter winds up attending.  The kid’s MIT-smart, no question.  And he’s basically a legacy, because if this isn’t a moment of parenting, Tony doesn’t know what is.

Bu he’s getting ahead of himself again.  He needs to see the kid through the night first.  

“Alright, Pete,” Tony says.  “I know you’ve been trying water, but we’re gonna keep trying, ok?”

“Ok,” Peter breathes.  “It hasn’t been h-helping, though.”

“I know.”  Tony touches the kid’s shoulder to give him a little warning, then offers the cup.  He slides the backs of his knuckles above Peter’s collar, trying to gauge the fever.  He wishes FRIDAY could provide an ambient reading, because there’s no way he’s sticking something in the kid’s mouth to trigger his gag reflex.  There’s no help needed in that department.  The sip of water lasts about 30 seconds before it becomes a lost cause.  

“See, I, it’s…”  Peter cringes.  He’s still forming coherent thoughts.  It’s his chattering teeth that make it difficult for him to vocalize them, Tony decides firmly.  

“I know,” Tony says.  “But at least you’re not tearing up your throat.”  It’s a stupid thing to tell the kid.  An excuse, really.  No doubt Peter’s already mentally run through it all while he’s been riding it out alone.  And watered-down barf still tastes like barf.

“What about…ginger ale?  May’s the kind of gal that keeps tequila and mixers on the top shelf of the pantry, right?”  It’s desperation wrapped in a joke.

“Hm.”  Peter wipes his mouth with the collar of his t-shirt.  “Under the…the kitchen sink.”

“Ok.  Good.”  Later on maybe they’ll have a discussion about why Peter knows that, but if a stolen sip of gin keeps him from having to cart the kid’s ass to the hospital, Tony’s happy.  

Tony splashes ginger ale into a glass and leaves the bottle uncapped on the counter.  The cup’s barely half-full, but Tony has to take care not to spill it as he races back to the bathroom.  

“Here you go,” he says, edging the glass into the kid’s hand.  

Peter stares down at the bubbles clinging to the sides of the cup.  Then he looks at Tony, his eyes glassy and bloodshot.  “I…I don’t know,” Peter whispers.

Tony sighs.  He tries to put on a smile.  “You’ve had about enough of this, huh?”

The kid nods dizzily.  

“Right now you’re running in circles.  You feel bad, so your body freaks out, so you feel worse, and it freaks out again…”  Tony trails off.  He remembers being a teenager himself again, explaining to a delirious coed that the red in her vomit was just the bloody marys.  Not imminent death.

But it’s not funny this time.  This time Tony actually cares.  “We’ll get you in to a real doctor later to make sure it’s not something serious.  Like, mono or something.  But first we gotta make it through tonight.”

“Hm.”  Peter swirls the ginger ale in the cup, then takes a small sip.

“Good.”  Tony takes the glass as the kid readjusts his elbows on the toilet seat.  He burps quietly and swallows.  Tony holds his breath.  

It seems Peter does too.  Finally he exhales.  

“You wanna try a little more?” Tony asks cautiously.

“No,” the kid mumbles.  “I mean…not yet.”

“Ok.”  Tony rests the cup on his knee.  He ghosts his fingertips over the back of Peter’s neck.  Tony thinks he might feel a little cooler.  He combs through the overgrown hair behind the kid’s ear, sweat-damp and curly.  

Peter could use a haircut.  He could use a shower.  But first they have to make it through the night.


End file.
